


fortunate son

by deadeyeboy



Series: it runs in the family [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Father/Son Incest, M/M, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 09:16:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11437782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadeyeboy/pseuds/deadeyeboy
Summary: It's Hanzo's twentieth birthday. His father decides to give him a very special present.





	fortunate son

**Author's Note:**

> this was inspired by talks with my friend [sin](http://nsfw-sin.tumblr.com/)! (who is an excellent writer with excellent ideas btw go check him out)
> 
> please note hanzo is trans and his genitals are referred to as cunt/pussy/clit etc. let me know if there is anything else i should tag for

Hanzo’s stockinged feet make next to no noise as he pads down the dim corridor. His path is lit only by the moonlight that filters through the shoji, casting faint lattice patterns on the wooden floorboards and across the gleaming silk of his yukata. Outside, the night is calm and surprisingly warm for early spring, a light breeze stirring at the trees.

His twentieth birthday had been a fairly subdued affair. A quiet gathering of close relatives and a select few elders over an elegant _kaiseki-ryōri_ prepared by the servants. Genji, predictably, had been bored to tears, begging off as soon as he’d given Hanzo his gift: a silken ribbon for his hair, a pale gold as the moon in the inky sky.

It flutters behind him as he strides onward with a sense of purpose. His father had retired relatively early in the night with a parting request that Hanzo meet him in his study once the dinner was over. Ever the dutiful son, Hanzo obeys.

Not that it had ever earned him much favor. The thought rises bitter and unbidden to the forefront of his mind before he can shove it back down again. It does not matter, he tells himself; he is the firstborn, the heir to the seat of the _oyabun_. It does not matter that he is not the favorite son. It’s a truth that he has endured for years.

Hanzo frowns. He just wishes—

He turns his mind to other things. For instance, what his father might want with him so late in the evening. Another gift, perhaps? Hanzo had already been presented with a magnificent new bow, resplendent in its design and its name: Storm Bow. Or maybe Hanzo would be assigned a new duty, such as overseeing the local weapon trafficking operations.

He slows to a stop in front of the closed door of his father’s study, swaying slightly. He’s had a little too much sake, his belly warm and his head buzzing. For some reason, he almost blushes as he knocks and then nudges open the door, as though he’s a child doing something naughty.

Sojiro is smoking; a rare event. He looks on with appraising eyes as Hanzo approaches his desk, head bowed and footsteps silent. White smoke curls out of his lips, smouldering like a dragon from the western stories. His long hair is loose from its usual severe bun, draped over his shoulders like black satin streaked through with silver.

“You asked for me, Father.” There’s a half-empty bottle of whisky on the desk, glimmering invitingly in the warm light of a nearby lamp. It’s accompanied by a drained glass.

A pause. Sojiro is taking another long drag from his cigarette, gaze low. Then he peers up at Hanzo through the smoke, eyes dark and piercing beneath his heavy brow.

Hanzo swallows tightly. Something dark and forbidden wriggles low in his gut: a realization he had learned to stifle long ago, but one that he will never be rid of.

Sojiro has always been a figure of omnipotence and power in Hanzo’s life. The stone dragon, they call him. The looks that Hanzo inherited from him had only grown more refined with time; there is a certain kingly air about him, a sort of godliness, that Hanzo can only attempt to imitate. Perhaps it is only natural that from an early age this desire would take seed and fester within him like a parasite.

“Happy birthday, Hanzo.” Hanzo blinks, breathing catching in his throat; of all the things he had been expecting to come out of his father’s mouth, that had not been one of them.

He’s caught too off guard to stammer out his thanks before Sojiro is standing, steady despite the strong scent of alcohol hanging in the air. “Come here, my son. Let me take a good look at you.” _My son_. Like an overeager dog, Hanzo trembles slightly as he circles around the desk. He does his best to stay composed while warmth blooms in his chest like a blossom.

Sojiro’s hands are big and warm as they come to rest on his shoulders, squeezing slightly. “You’ve grown into a fine young man,” he murmurs. His hands smooth down Hanzo’s arms before falling away. Maybe it’s the sake, but Hanzo’s skin buzzes slightly at the ghost of the touch. “Certainly worthy of claiming the title of _oyabun_.”

Something greater than pride constricts Hanzo’s throat. “Yes, Father.” It comes out as a whisper. “Thank you.”

The leather desk chair creaks as Sojiro sinks down once more, beckoning Hanzo to stand beside him and pulling up the holoscreen on his desk with one fluid swipe of his fingers. “Look here.” His tone is suddenly clipped, businesslike. “I believe you are ready to take on more responsibility. You’ve been working with administration all year. Ishikawa has expressed interest in mentoring you during the coming months—” A promotion, then. Hanzo will be working with the most senior _wakagashira_ , which is exciting enough — so why does he feel so disappointed?

Still, he listens and watches diligently as his father outlines his new obligations, which includes supervising human trafficking activities between Hamamatsu and Hanamura; a greater assignment than Hanzo feels necessarily prepared for, but one he will accept nonetheless. As Sojiro speaks, the whisky glass is refilled and drained two more times, until there is the slightest slur to his speech.

There’s a brief lapse into silence. Hanzo leans forward to read the contract details, hands braced on the desk beside his father’s. Then— Hanzo’s breath hitches as a large, gentle hand settles at the small of his back. Sojiro’s thumb swipes back and forth over the knobs of Hanzo’s spine, like the nervous twitch of a cat’s tail.

“Father?” Hanzo’s voice comes out small.

“You’re loyal to me, aren’t you. Hanzo. You’re loyal to your Papa.” Such strange language for Sojiro to be using; almost childish. Hanzo’s suddenly aware that he’s close enough to feel Sojiro’s breath whispering over his face. More concerning is the hand that slowly travels down, down, until it cups the firm swell of his rear. Squeezes gently, as if testing.

Heat shoots up Hanzo’s spine, prickles across his face and swells in his chest. It’s as though he’s breaking out in a fine sweat all over his body. “Father? What— ah. Ah.” Hanzo’s shoulders quake, head dipping as his father’s fingers delve deep into the fabric of his yukata, putting firm pressure against his asshole.

“Answer the question, Hanzo.” Sojiro’s facial hair scratches at Hanzo’s jaw as he leans in to whisper in Hanzo’s ear. His hand is slipping down, down the back of Hanzo’s thigh, then forward, breaching the folds of the yukata and wriggling beneath until it meets bare skin. Hanzo jerks in shock as Sojiro grasps tightly at the meat of his thigh, calloused fingers digging into his flesh.

“Father.” He shudders, hunching further over the desk as the back of his yukata is hitched up. “Oh—” Sojiro’s fingers are rubbing slow and firm against him through his underwear, massaging slick into the cotton. It’s the most intimately Hanzo has ever been touched by another person, and he finds himself pushing his hips back into it.

He thinks he ought to be disgusted by this. He thinks he ought to be fleeing the room, gathering the tattered remains of his principles and retreating.

And yet, this is what he’s wanted, what he’s _dreamed_ of for years. He could no sooner deny himself this than he could pluck the moon out of the sky.

Perhaps this is a test of his will.

(If so, let him fail it.)

Low and fervent in his ear: “Do you love me, Hanzo? Do you love your Papa?” Hanzo chokes out a sob, confused tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. For so long he has worked himself to his weary core to earn his father’s approval, his affection. To be treated like the favorite, the beloved — if this is all he’d needed to do, he would have spread his legs years ago.

“Yes. Yes, Papa, yes.” It’s like a dam breaking, all of Hanzo’s bridled desperation for attention and tenderness bursting through like a flood. “Yes, yes, I love you, Papa, yes—” He arches his hips, moaning, as Sojiro yanks his yukata up and to the side, revealing his pale flank.

“Fundoshi. Such an old soul.” Sojiro sounds amused even as he hooks a finger beneath the twisted fabric and pulls it to the side. Hanzo sniffles, stifling a wet chuckle in his fist, giddiness and horror warring in his chest in equal measure. That doesn’t stop his legs from falling open wider, encouraging his father’s touch, inviting it.

“So nice and smooth for me, Hanzo. Good boy.” As he speaks, one of Sojiro’s thumbs rubs up and down the slick, clean-shaven lips of Hanzo’s pussy. Hanzo sighs and trembles his pleasure, edging back insistently; he’s rewarded with a breach of Sojiro’s thick thumb, the rough pad of it dragging at his insides as it pushes in.

“What do you want?” Hanzo jumps at the static sensation of his swollen clit gliding between two of Sojiro’s fingers. He peeks back over his shoulder, sees his father leaning forward with avid interest, clenches down around his thumb. “It is your birthday, after all.”

Without hesitation: “You, Papa. Please.”

Minutes later, there are two, three thick fingers buried deep inside of Hanzo’s cunt, Sojiro hooking them downward to seek out that spot that makes him writhe and groan. He can hear how wet he is, squelching with every curl and twist of those fingers. His pleasure is only spurred on by the circular motion of Sojiro’s thumb against his fat clit, rhythmic and firm so that Hanzo can’t buck away.

“So big, Hanzo. It’s grown so big.” Hanzo cries out as Sojiro drives his fingers in particularly hard, pressing frantic little kisses to the base of Sojiro’s wrist where his hand is braced against the desk. “You feel so good inside. Like velvet. But tight. Has no one else done this to you before?” Sojiro makes a pleased noise as Hanzo shakes his head _no_. “Saved yourself just for me, didn’t you?”

Sojiro is half draped over him at this point, heavy and warm against Hanzo’s back. There’s a stiff point of pressure against the back of Hanzo’s thigh. Excitement roils in his gut from the mere thought that he might get to see his father hard, aroused just for him. Maybe Sojiro will want him to take it into his mouth, suckle at it eager and virgin-clumsy; Hanzo can imagine the weight of it on his tongue, salty precome and silky foreskin. Not that he’s ever experienced cock firsthand, but from the things he has read late at night, when he yearned for nothing more than the comfort of his own hand—

He knows where he wants it more than anything else, though.

“Father.” There’s a slight whine to his voice. Juvenile. “Papa.” He lets out a quiet whine as Sojiro’s fingers pull out of his pussy with a slick noise so that he can soothe a hand down Hanzo’s back.

“What do you need, Hanzo?” Voice low, gentle. As if he’s speaking to a child, not to his twenty-year old son. “What do you need from me?”

Hanzo squirms, ears hot, frantically rubbing his cheek against the cool surface of the desk. “I want it, Papa,” he whispers. There’s something so freeing about being able to talk like this, free of expectations and responsibility.

“What do you want?” Encouraging. “Use your words.”

Hanzo’s breath catches in his throat. “I want. I want it.” His face is burning up. “I want your— your cock, Papa, please, please, please—”

“Shhh.” Sojiro hushes him, petting his flank. “Good boy. Relax, now.”

A near impossible task when Hanzo is so excited, nerves flaring in his belly as he hears the rustle of clothing behind him. He glances back just in time to see his father take himself out, weighing his cock in the palm of his hand. The whisky has not wilted him in the slightest. It looks heavy, long and girthy, the foreskin snug around the fat head. Wetness trickles out of Hanzo, hole clenching and hungry; he cannot remember the last time he felt so desperate to have something inside of him.

At first, Sojiro seems content to tease him, letting the hot shaft rub slowly between the dripping lips of Hanzo’s cunt, occasionally drawing back enough that the tip just kisses against Hanzo’s opening. Hanzo grows impatient quickly. “Papa. Don’t make me beg anymore,” he murmurs, soft and sweet as he’s able, and it’s wholly gratifying to hear Sojiro groan, hips twitching forward.

The first push inside is startling in how it aches. Hanzo grits his teeth. It doesn’t hurt, exactly, but it’s certainly not comfortable until the head pops inside, at which point Hanzo goes limp like a puppet with its strings cut, mouth open in a soft ‘o’ as Sojiro eases himself in to the hilt.

Sojiro’s lips press against Hanzo’s temple. Hanzo can feel Sojiro’s thighs trembling against his ass with the effort of holding himself back, and suddenly this is not enough. He doesn’t want kind, he doesn’t want gentle; he wants his father to hold him down and give it to him.

His voice breaks in the middle as he speaks. “Father,” he rasps. “Fuck me, please.”

Sojiro huffs into his hair, breath warm and shivery. “Insolent,” he whispers, but Hanzo can feel the ghost of a smile.

The first outward drag is heavenly, Hanzo’s insides clutching and suckling at Sojiro’s cock. It’s slick, and hot, and that ache grows into something delicious. A satisfying stretch of muscle as Sojiro presses back in, filling him up just right.

All too soon Hanzo finds himself wanting more still. He begins to push back insistently. Little noises spill from his lips, a rhythmic “Ah, ah, ah” at the end of each thrust as Sojiro strikes him too deep. It hurts to take him so deep, and yet Hanzo forces himself back as far as he can, yearning after that fantastic pain.

The slap of skin on skin fills the air, punctuated by the slick noises of Hanzo’s cunt. On impulse, Hanzo worms a hand beneath himself and reaches between his legs, searching. His father’s balls are heavy and warm as he weighs them on his palm. He squeezes, fascinated as he feels them flex and draw up slightly. Sojiro grunts and stutters for a moment as Hanzo tugs at the sac, quick to shoo away his wandering hand.

“Genji gave this to you?” Hanzo squints in confusion until he realizes that Sojiro is talking about the long golden ribbon in hair, sliding it between his thumb and forefinger. Sojiro makes a pleased sound when Hanzo nods. “It suits you.” That doesn’t stop him from tugging it loose, Hanzo’s long hair spilling across his back like a silky black curtain.

“Just like your mother’s hair,” Sojiro hums, thoughtful, perhaps the slightest bit wistful. “But,” he continues, “you always did take after her. Gorgeous.”

Hanzo groans, squeezing his eyes shut, careless of the tears that clump in his eyelashes. He knows they’re only in joy.

And then moments later, in pain as Sojiro’s grabs a fistful of his hair to use as a handhold, tugging Hanzo’s head back. Hanzo’s hands curl into fists as he braces them on the desk, spine arching deeply. It’s becoming apparent Sojiro is nearing his peak, movements becoming ragged and uneven. It’s exciting to be the one to make the stone dragon lose his composure.

Sojiro slams in hard and settles, hips twitching against Hanzo’s rear. Hanzo can’t feel the extra heat or wetness like he’d imagined he’d be able to, but he gasps wetly against the desk all the same, clamping hard around the length inside of him as he feels it start to soften and slip. “Papa,” he mumbles, whimpering quietly as he feels Sojiro start to pull away. Sojiro hushes him.

“So good for me, Hanzo. So good. I haven’t said it enough.” He pulls out, leaving behind a terrible emptiness, followed by a thick hot ooze that Hanzo realizes must be his come. Leaking out of him is the very seed he had been borne from.

His first time, and it had been his father. Hanzo is certain he wouldn’t have wanted anyone else.

Out of some insane need, he reaches back behind himself. His slit is hot and tender to the touch as he scoops up the trickle of come and pushes it back inside. He breathes out shakily, feeling his silky wet hole clutch at his fingertips.

“ _Hanzo_.” Sojiro’s voice is a fervent as a prayer. Suddenly Hanzo is being flipped, back thudding against the desk as Sojiro slots between his legs. Hanzo surges up at the same time Sojiro leans down, and their mouths clash somewhere in the middle. “Hanzo.” Sojiro sounds breathless as they part and then come together again more softly. “Hanzo.” Stubble scrapes against Hanzo’s jaw as he invites Sojiro’s tongue and the taste of whisky into his mouth. Their kiss devolves into something hot and messy and desperate, Hanzo shuddering and raking his fingers down Sojiro’s clothed back as Sojiro tugs his bottom lip between his teeth.

Finally they break apart, a thin strand of saliva stringing between their mouths. Sojiro tenderly cradles the back of Hanzo’s head in his hand for a moment before his eyebrows knit together in realization.

Hanzo twitches in surprise as his father presses his thumb firmly against his clit, pushing back the hood and exposing the dark swollen head. “It’s your birthday,” Sojiro croons against his neck. “What sort of father would I be to leave you unsatisfied?”

Hanzo watches through half-lidded eyes as Sojiro sinks gracefully to his knees. “I love you, Papa,” he murmurs, spreading his legs open wide to receive the gift of his father’s loving mouth — perhaps the best gift he’s ever been given.

 


End file.
